AN: Starring the most lovable murder queen of them all.

Misa is such a great character often misunderstood or underappreciated. A frilly little combo of narcissistic personality disorder, love martyr and delusional apathetic murderer in Goth Lolita clothing and piggy tails that everyone takes for a simple dumb blonde.

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She remembers them all the time. But she never speaks of them. She lets the silence carry her thoughts and unshed tears.

She remembers them when the leaves fall, when the flowers rot, when branches cringe into themselves, when her footsteps are hidden with grey snow, when the sun leaves them in the dark. She remembers them when she walks among death.

Rub, open, blink and the world is yours again.

She remembers them when she catches a glimpse on the mirror. When she sees a small plain girl with dull brown hair that eats dairy, twirling in front of the TV, proclaiming herself as the next big superstar.

She remembers them when she finds herself with a phone in her hands. She remembers her estranged sister who will have nothing to do with her fame. They weren't that close anyway.

You laugh child.

She remembers them when her co star kisses her. All saccharine and nothing shattering. She remembers a pat on her hair and a kiss on her cheek and their voices carries her throughout the scene without her knowledge. She's stuck in sepia portrait where cameras and microphones are not allowed.

She remembers them when she sees her high school boyfriend on the train one day. She stares shamelessly before he can feel the weight of her blue contact-double layered mascara eyes through him. He looks together and grounded and she wonders briefly what he's doing this days. But when he returns young simple eyes at her, he doesn't make a move to talk to her, but he does recognize her. He remembers how much of a mess she is, he remembers her dramatic batting of eyelashes and the way she latched into his skin, digging her nails into his core so he can be a part of her and never leave her. He knows he dodged a bullet there, no matter how famous or pretty she becomes.

Perfection inspires affection.

She remember when she gets gifts from here fans. From strangers who adore her. Little girls who want to be just like her and men who want to be in her. They worship a pretty doll, with long golden hair and a smile sliding to a shining Glasgow, she's stuffed too much with daisies and shard of glass and when the season comes, when they watch, petals bloom out of her button eyes and the glass cuts the satin strings that keep her together. And she's ragged. No one but a parent could love her then.

She remembers them when she's with Light. He ignores her and nods when she's gone quiet for too long and reminds himself to touch her so she could remember she's still there. She nods and listens to his babbling of The New World, and murmurs between her eyebrows how good of a Queen she'll be.

Pray for the devil to save you.

She remembers when her eyes itch so much she wants to scratch the sight out of her brain cortex. When they get so red she's convinced all the color in the world has bathed in blood. The Shinigami shrugs and perhaps she doesn't love Misa after all.

Remember you're still alive Misa.

She remembers them when she passes a cemetery and suddenly her head is too crowded. She pinches her forearm out of the numbness that's invading her from the dirt on the headstones. She read all epitaphs too fast and brown weeds sink into her nerves, make a connection and see them for what they're worth. She remembers a monster without a face and too many arms, too long a too dark, groaning and demanding damnation in the form of a single rusted blade that seems too long and sharp even now. She remembers a different lanky man in a coat and a blue hat, waiting in the shadow with a promise of eternal love in his head and a doctor's words in his head. She remembers a broad man with sleazy hands and cheap cologne, his ambition only in pair with his stupidity, when he thought he could have her in a bathtub of money. She remembers a pale detective peeling of her skin to wear it at his own, sitting behind her eyelids to see what she's done. She remembers an older gentleman, quiet with keen shadowed eyes and the smell of watered English mornings. She remembers a father desperate for justice, for thrust, for family, to confirm he didn't love the monster that burned the world.

One. Two. Too much.

She remembers before she's awake. At 6:13 in the morning and her sheets feel less like the caress of a lover more like a constricted snake. When the sun is blood red and this is her kingdom. When she brushes her hair until it becomes liquid gold, she is a queen. When her eyes dry and her stomach clenches. She doesn't cry. She never cries. She hasn't felt anything since then and she's not sure there has ever been anything real. She remembers that maybe there is no before and after that changed her, maybe she's always been a little too dramatic, a little too distracting, a little less empathetic.

She remembers them today specially. It is December 25th. Christmas in the other side of the world, the celebration of The Saviors' arrival. She remembers the story, the ideology behind it, the traditions and His face. She thinks maybe someday they'll remember her like that. The Goddess.

She remembers her because she is twenty five years old and she has never felt more like a child.

Happy birthday Misa, make a wish.

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This is no way to get in the holiday spirit.

Merry Christmas and have a big glass (or bottle) of wine for Misa.